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VIII 



I WAS hurrying across Boston Common. Two or three 

 hundred others were hurrying with me. But ahead, at 

 the union of several paths, was a crowd, standing still. 

 I kept hurrying on, not to join the crowd, but simply 

 to keep up the hurry. The crowd was not standing 

 still, it was a-hurrying, too, scattering as fast as it 

 gathered, and as it scattered I noticed that it wore a 

 smile. I hastened up, pushed in, as I had done a score 

 of times on the Common, and got my glimpse of the 

 show. It was not a Mormon preaching, not a single- 

 taxer, not a dog fight. It was Billy, a gray squirrel, 

 taking peanuts out of a bootblack's pocket. And every 



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